


Marked

by MademoiselleLucie



Series: Soulmates [1]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MademoiselleLucie/pseuds/MademoiselleLucie
Summary: Athos is sick of being branded unnatural for having the soulmate mark of another man, and is determined that love is a farce designed to make fools out of gullible idiots. D'Artagnan just wants his life to stop sucking quite so much.





	1. Hangover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/gifts).
  * Inspired by [To New Beginnings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4786001) by [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox). 



> Because my poor little heart was moved by the beautiful writing of Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, the effects of wine are only temporary.

Athos awoke to rays of sunlight piercing through his eyelids and a throbbing headache. Groaning, he rolled to a sitting position and dropped his head into his hands. Evidently the amount of wine he had consumed the night before had failed to permanently erase the reality he currently found himself in.

With a deep sigh, he hauled himself to his feet and shuffled over to the window to pull in the bucket of icy water hanging outside. He dropped the bucket on the floor and sunk to his knees. He was not looking forward to this. He leant forward and tipped his whole head into the bucket, letting the leftover shards of ice cling to his hair and slide down his chest. There, unmarred by numerous scars and failing to be obscured by the frigid water dripping off Athos’ chest, lay the word that belied his demeanour of gruff indifference. Dark and unmistakable, elegant script curled around the bottom of his pectoral muscle: _Charles._

Every person had a mark, displaying the name of their soulmate to the world. But Athos’ mark was not like others. His was the type of mark that was only discussed in a whisper, barely more than a rumour, rather than a reality that Athos lived every day. Honourable men did not have the names of other men written indelibly on their skin. The church denied all existence of such marks, declaring them to be the false work of witches that had removed the true mark of a soulmate through magic. Athos knew better. Charles was real, and he had cursed him to a life of hiding from the day his name had appeared on his skin when he was thirteen.

Some days he hated the unknown man who had made his life a living hell, forcing him to get up early each day to carefully write the most generic female name he could think of on his forearm. Anne was the name of practically every fifth girl in France, and the ink on his arm protected him. But the truth burned in his heart. He was destined to love a man, and he could never let anyone know. Not even that man, for fear of choking on the end of a rope. He had eventually become so angry with his fate that he began cutting through the mark each day with a dull knife, hoping that the scarring would render the name illegible. But it didn’t matter. When the cuts healed, the letters had always reappeared, undeniable and just as clear as before, printed neatly on top of the scars: _Charles_. Inescapable.

Some days he wished Charles would just bloody show up already so he didn’t have to feel so lonely. Today was one of those days.

Athos stood and stretched. The mark ached today. Probably just a result of the chill in the air leeching into the scars. He shook it off and donned his uniform, along with his usual façade of unaffected stoicism. He was going to be late for muster if he didn’t hurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fic... if people like it I will continue! But if it sucks let me know so I can fix it (because I'll probably continue regardless of its suckitude). I just couldn't help myself, it got dragged out of me in 5 minutes flat.


	2. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world has robbed D'Artagnan of everything he had. Now he is going to take a little something back. After all, it's only fair.

D’Artagnan was in a rage. His father was dead, and now he was being blamed for murder of some high born, overweight imbecile, framed by the beautiful woman he had allowed to seduce him to bed the night before. He’d had to jump out the window to avoid being arrested, and only by sheer luck had the woman he had kissed in the market not had him shot where he stood. Instead, she had taken him on as a boarder with the warning not to behave so foolishly ever again.

Now sitting on the bed in his rented room, D’Artagnan cursed, praying it had been too dark for the murderess at the inn to notice the name written in the curve of his hip, poorly covered with dust from the road. He needed to be more careful, or he would never get the chance to meet the man whose name had graced his skin from the day he had turned fifteen.

He had woken up that morning of his fifteenth birthday to a burning sensation searing across his right hip. Before his very eyes, a delicately looped “O” had begun to darken into place right at the top of his hip. D’Artagnan had excitedly called to his parents, wondering what the name of his soulmate might be. Opal, perhaps? Ophelia? As an “L” and an “I” came into view, he assumed it would be a woman named Olivia who was destined to be his life partner. Unfortunately, he couldn’t have been more wrong. His parents burst into the room just in time to watch in horror as the rest of the name came into view: _Olivier_.

From that day forward, D’Artagnan’s life had never been the same. His parents were kind people and did not blame their son for the name blackening his skin, but they knew the mark would have to be hidden. Each day D’Artagnan had to endure his mother painstakingly covering the mark with powder and reminding him that it must never be seen. If he was asked, he must say that his mark was hidden on his inner thigh. Soulmate marks were private anyway; no one would dare inquire.

Now though, D’Artagnan was alone. Both mother and father gone, and left to carry the burden of protecting his secret by himself. At least now he had a purpose. The man called Athos, who had ripped his father’s life away from him before his time, would pay the ultimate price. Gathering his weapons from the meager collection of his belongings atop the small vanity Constance had provided, he set out to find the dishonourable musketeer and deliver justice.


	3. Headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos was pretty sure he hadn't done anything to deserve this day.

Athos couldn’t believe today. It wasn’t even noon, and some young Gascon had appeared out of nowhere and was challenging him to a duel. He rubbed his temples as his headache threatened to overcome him. His mind drifted back to when his life had been happier, or more peaceful at least.

_Anne may not have been his soulmate, but she was beautiful and charming and full of wit. She claimed her soulmate had died in a tragic accident before they had met, rendering her mark grey and lifeless. She was embarrassed of its pale appearance, and so she hid it from view. Or at least, that is what she had said. Athos had never minded. She had never judged him for his mark, and marks were private things. Who was he to judge? Besides, Anne had been the perfect person to pose as his “soulmate” in fulfillment of the name he had been scrawling across his arm for years. Mark or not, he was convinced that he loved her, that their relationship could rise above the importance of soulmates. How wrong he had been._

_His life was shattered the day he walked into the drawing room to find his brother laying lifeless on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, drawn by the dagger hanging loosely from his wife’s fingers. Dress ripped and hanging from her thin frame, she tried to insist that Thomas had tried to rape her and that she had only been protecting herself. But Athos had seen the truth when he had come closer, because there, undeniably dark and present on her shoulder, visible through the tears in her gown was written “Constance”. Athos demanded an explanation for the mark and her actions. Anne admitted she had been using Athos to hide the reality of her mark, and had planned to use his money to gain status and power. Surely Athos understood that Thomas finding out had been a threat to her life! He had to die to protect them both._

_Infuriated, Athos informed her that Thomas had been no threat, particularly due to the word “Lemay” hidden in between the pinky and ring fingers of his left hand. He ordered that Anne be locked in her room to be hung in the morning, but by the time the sun rose the next day, she had disappeared._

Athos shook his head slightly, returning to the present. Perhaps, he supposed, his past life had not been so peaceful after all.

The fiery Gascon in front of him was still yelling, brandishing his sword (with decent form, Athos noted) and demanding his blood. With a sigh, Athos straightened and unsheathed his sword. “Very well” he reluctantly agreed.

Though he was clearly inexperienced, Athos noted that this “D’Artagnan” fought well. He was quick on his feet and knew how to use that fact to his advantage. He was also, Athos noted, quite beautiful under the sun, with the light accenting warm brown skin covering wiry muscles and determined passion lighting up his eyes. He quickly quashed that thought. “Focus!” he reminded himself. Now was not the time to give in to the urges he swore to himself he did not have, mark be damned.

Their duel was abruptly cut short when the Red Guards arrived to arrest him and take him to the Chatelet. He followed Treville’s orders to go with them quietly, his headache worsening even more.

“Well,” he thought, “at least it really can’t get any worse.”


	4. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan gets revenge while Athos dreams.

D’Artagnan wasn’t sure how he had gotten here. One minute he was chomping at the bit to spill Athos’ blood for murdering his father, and now he was hauling his ass across Paris to save him. Plus his hip was throbbing like mad, he must have bruised it somehow during the fight. But Aramis and Porthos had promised that helping them would lead him to the man who killed his father, and he had no other leads, so he continued on with them to the inn where his father was attacked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Athos tipped his head back against the muddy wall of his cell in the Chatelet and closed his eyes. He had every faith that Aramis and Porthos were out in Paris trying to prove his innocence, but he doubted they could find evidence in time. He wasn’t even sure he wanted them to. He was doomed to a life alone, hoping for an honourable death on the battlefield at best. And if he ever did meet Charles, he would have to deny the existence of his mark lest he face a fate much more gruesome than the firing squad he was currently sentenced to. He scrubbed his face with his hands, letting his shoulders droop in defeat and noticing that the ink on his arm was smeared. He almost laughed. Even now he had to maintain this fake mark, just so he could live long enough to die tomorrow morning. 

Hoping for an escape for his grim surroundings, Athos lowered his eyelids and let his mind drift. He imagined what it would be like if he could be allowed to love his soulmate. He imagined a small farm with a humble little cottage, and fields that he and his soulmate could work together. He pictured a sunny smile that lit up a room and a determined spirit full of life. He pictured being allowed to let his fingers drift across strong, wide shoulders, and pressing lips to a toned, flat stomach that strained to remain still as Athos let his tongue trace a wicked trail down past his lover’s navel. He imagined lifting his head up to meet deep, expressive brown eyes that belonged to… the young Gascon from this morning! Damnit. Athos groaned and opened his eyes, guilt lancing through his stomach. He was not allowed to imagine such things with another man, and it was certainly even worse to imagine them with a man who was not his soulmate! To do so was to break the law and betray his life partner, and since he could not offer him anything else, he could at least remain true to him in thought. He shifted, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. He had just wanted today to be over, and now it wasn’t just his mark that was aching.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
With a grunt, D’Artagnan pulled his sword from the belly of the last Red Guard. It was done. One of the other guards had admitted that the guard Gaudet had impersonated Athos and killed his father, and for that D’Artagnan had taken his life. He supposed he owed Athos a bit of an apology. But maybe, he thought as Porthos held up the stolen Musketeer uniforms in triumph, saving his life would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos definitely owes D'Artagnan a heartfelt thank you now..


	5. Eschewing Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where did D'Artagnan come from, and why could he fight so well?

After saving Athos’ life, D’Artagnan took to spending his days at the garrison. Athos had taken him on as his apprentice, and although he was never offered much praise, he knew his skills were improving. Athos himself was enigma, saying very little and drowning himself in wine each night. But his loyalty to his friends was fierce and unrelenting, and it was clear to everyone that they were a unit. There was a reason they were known as the Inseparables. Aramis and Porthos were much more open, laughing and causing mischief wherever they went and dragging an irritated Athos in their wake. D’Artagnan sometimes noticed an awkward tension between the two if they were left alone for a period of time, but he ignored it, figuring it wasn’t his business and just happy to be included in their little group in the first place. 

D’Artagnan had once asked about Athos’ drinking while they were the in tavern one night, Athos separate from them at his customary table in a darkened corner. “There was someone once.” Porthos had answered, “she’s gone.” D’Artagnan was surprised at how conflicted he felt about that. On one hand, he was upset that Athos had had to go through the pain of losing his wife, presumably his soulmate. No pain was comparable to that. But a small part of him felt relieved that she was gone, whoever she was. “Athos is not yours!” he chastised himself, “You must wait for Olivier, and Athos has enough trouble to deal with without you panting at his heels like a lost pup.” From that point on, he made an effort to leave Athos to his thoughts, only interrupting his brooding to drag him home to his lodgings each night to ensure he was safe.

A few months had passed since D’Artagnan had started training with the Musketeers before Aramis and Porthos asked about D’Artagnan’s life before Paris, wanting to allow him some time and privacy to grieve. But they were curious about his farm life and how he had come to be so skilled at the sword without formal training. D’Artagnan happily recounted tales from his youth of climbing the rafters of his family barn and waking early to train with his father in the yard before tending the fields. He was an only child, and his parents had both loved him dearly and doted upon him, ensuring that he received an education, both practical and academic. D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis were surprised to learn, could not only fight, but also write, cook, and play several instruments. He had even read extensively about famous history and literary works. His father, Alexandre D’Artagnan he explained, was not a noble, but he had believed strongly in the value of education and progress. He treated his wife like an equal, and her spirit of independence led her to eschew tradition upon the birth of her only son. Instead of naming him Alexandre, she had instead named him Charles.

There was a shattering noise behind them, causing the trio to jump in their seats and turn rapidly to determine the source of the sound. Athos was sitting in his typical corner, but his face was white as a sheet and the remains of his cup were shattered around his feet. Realizing that the entire tavern was staring at him, Athos quickly stood and muttered an apology, leaving enough money on the table to replace all the cups in the entire tavern before stalking quickly out the door.

“What was that about?” D’Artagnan wondered aloud.

“Guess the wine didn’t agree with him.” said Porthos.


	6. Slip Ups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' hand slips, and so does his control.

Outside the tavern and hidden in a darkened alley, Athos pressed his hands against the wall as his stomach heaved. It was just his luck, he thought dizzily, that **D’Artagnan** might be his soulmate. The only one with a chance at ruining his perfectly constructed indifference, with his kind heart and passionate dedication to justice. Athos was surprised someone hadn’t snatched him up already, soulmate or not. The young Gascon was all anyone could want in a life partner, and everything **he** couldn’t have. And now he was his apprentice. It had already been torture so far, having to catalogue his every movement as he sparred each day and watching as sweat slid down his back and below the waistline of his breeches, where Athos’s gaze was forbidden to follow. At least before he could pretend that “Charles” was somewhere out there, surely more tempting, and so Athos should at very least be able to control his urges for a man who was not his soulmate. But with this knowledge he could no longer deny what his subconscious had already been insisting; that D’Artagnan’s body had been built for sin, meant for his touch alone, and that his personality was meant to be the perfect counterpoint to his own. Only he would be able to fulfill Athos, and he had been custom-made by God to weaken every defense Athos had.

In a panic, Athos sank to his knees on the dirty cobblestones only to realize that, despite his despair, his cock had clearly taken an interest in the direction of his thoughts. He shook his head. What was he going to do now?

Footsteps sounded behind him in the alley. Athos quickly rose and wiped his mouth, preparing for a fight.

“It’s just me!” called D’Artagnan, “Are you alright?” Fuck, he’d rather it had been bandits at this point. He couldn’t even muster a reply before D’Artagnan was there, supporting him and murmuring comforting nonsense and promising to take him home. He stayed silent the whole trip, realizing he was drunker than he had initially thought and not wanting to say anything revealing. He let his weight fall onto D’Artagnan’s shoulders though, promising himself it was just because he needed help to balance. They made it all the way to Athos’ door without incident, and Athos had begun to relax slightly. He should have known better, he later reflected, because as soon as D’Artagnan leant forward to open his door, his hand slipped off his shoulder and he stumbled slightly. He caught himself with a hand on the boy’s hip but his weight dragged his breeches down slightly, revealing a name he was very familiar with: _Olivier_.They both gasped. There it was: proof. D'Artagnan was his soulmate, and Athos could no longer deny it. Athos didn’t think he had ever seen something so beautiful, and his mouth watered immediately at the thought of pressing his lips to the spot where his own name was seared permanently into D’Artagnan’s skin.

D’Artagnan hauled them both inside and shut the door quickly. His face was drawn and his eyes pleaded for something that Athos couldn’t quite comprehend. “Please, don’t tell anyone.” blurted the boy.

Athos gaped. D’Artagnan thought he would drag him before the king to be executed? Never! Athos struggled to come up with a suitably comforting yet platonic reply. “Of course,” he stuttered, “it is none of my business what your mark does or does not say.”

“Oh God, thank you.” breathed the Gascon, his eyes filling with relief. “It’s not that I’ve ever been with a man, you know?” he continued, flopping onto Athos’ bed, “But I suppose, whoever he is, he was built for me. It’s not like I chose the name to be written on my skin, but I know I will love him, and I suppose that means I will enjoy whatever… bedsport that involves as well.” he finished, his face colouring deeply. He sat up, realizing that Athos had not said a word and was still standing by the door in full uniform, with his jaw hanging open as if D’Artagnan had just declared his desire to bed a fish. He stood hurriedly, saying “My apologies, I must’ve had too much to drink. Forget I said anything. Goodnight.” He opened the door and disappeared into the night.

The door had barely swung shut before Athos began stumbling to the bed, tearing off clothes as he went and ripping stitches in the process. He had barely gotten a hand around his cock before it erupted, spilling hot and wet over his palm. He clenched his teeth, refusing to let himself gasp D’Artagnan’s name as he spent, but even as he bit back his moans, visions of D’Artagnan and “bedsport” danced before his eyes.

Athos groaned, wiping his hand on the sheets and rolling to his side. He would deal with this in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gods, the smut, I can't. Real bad? I hope not. Ugh, just... it's fine. Ignore me.


	7. Observant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan can't figure out what is wrong with him.

D’Artagnan collapsed into bed, still shaking from his admission to Athos. What could he possibly have been thinking? He should have been more careful, knowing that the sweat from sparring would have rubbed away the layer of dust covering his mark. But Athos had never leant so heavily on him before, and he hadn’t expected him to slip like that. And then he had opened his mouth and blabbed all about his worries about sleeping with a man. God, Athos must be disgusted with him right now. He trusted that he would keep his word about his mark, but D’Artagnan didn’t think he could ever regain the respect he had surely just lost.

It just that Athos was so easy to talk to. A man of few words, his sombre face and deep blue eyes compelled you to spill all your secrets. And it wasn’t that D’Artagnan simply admired him. Obviously Athos was an exemplary musketeer and an honourable man, but he was also thoughtful, hard-working, and, quite honestly, handsome. It was difficult to tell at first glance, since Athos strangely left his shirt on while sparring, no matter the heat, but D’Artagnan had watched closely. Under all the layers of belts and leather, Athos was broad and sturdy with not an ounce of fat to mar what was still a lithe and graceful frame. Next to Porthos’ bulk, it seemed like nothing, but Athos was very muscular compared to any normal man, or even most musketeers. D’Artagnan had even caught a glimpse of a defined “v” of muscle framing a faint happy trail into his breeches when he stretched to demonstrate a maneuver. And his face was so expressive, though he tried to hide it beneath layers of thick, wavy hair. His stoicism was ruined for the close observer by the crow's feet stretching from his eyes, proving that, once, Athos had been happy. 

D’Artagnan shook his head to dispel his wayward thoughts, feeling frustrated. Lately it had been getting increasingly difficult to keep his thoughts towards Athos platonic, and he didn’t understand why. Only the fact that he was promised to Olivier kept his willpower in place, supported by the fact that he wouldn’t know how to go about seducing Athos if he wanted to. A fact which he had basically blurted into Athos’ face! Ugh. He wished that Olivier would just show up already, because he was done with feeling so lost and alone. D’Artagnan buried his face in his pillow and sighed. Maybe he would wake up and this mess will have been a nightmare.


	8. Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos is in control. Definitely.

When Athos woke up the next morning, the events of the previous night hit him like a brick wall. His behaviour had been irresponsible and reprehensible. He just hoped D’Artagnan hadn’t lingered outside his lodgings long enough to hear his bitten off cries. He dragged himself out of bed, swearing, to stand in front of the small mirror he had placed above his wash table. Looking himself in the eye, he promised that he would never let his feelings for D’Artagnan overwhelm him again. It was the only way to keep him safe, and the boy deserved better than to have a partner stained by the past like he was. Better that he never learned of the existence of Olivier d’Athos de la Fère. 

He dressed for duty, pulling on heavy weaponry and equipment and leaving the icy bucket behind.

He deserved the headache.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

D’Artagnan didn’t know what had happened. Athos was hardly one for emotional outbursts or tactile relationships, but now it was like he thought he had the plague. Ever since the night Athos had seen his mark, he had stopped touching D’Artagnan altogether, even giving up the friendly shoulder pats all musketeers shared. He barely spoke to him, only giving voice to his thoughts to shout corrections when the boy made a mistake while sparring. He disappeared each night as soon as his shift was over and couldn’t be found in any tavern. In fact, it seemed almost as if Athos had quit drinking entirely. He never showed up reeking of wine anymore, and he even refused to indulge in a cup of wine with the garrison when everyone was celebrating an occasion. 

D’Artagnan was hurt by Athos’ continued rejection of his company, but he understood. His mark made him a freak of nature, and his acceptance of it made him a criminal in the eyes of the church. Though he did not consider his eventual love for Olivier to be a sin, he could not expect Athos to feel the same way and did not want to force the man to sully himself by spending time in his presence. Despite this logic, the Gascon could not shake off the feeling of depression that had settled on his shoulders. Even Aramis had noticed, and had inquired if something was wrong. D’Artagnan had shaken him off, claiming fatigue and heading home early for the evening. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Athos marched home with purpose, refusing to give up the impression of being an alert and ready soldier, but inside his soul felt withered and listless. It had been months since D’Artagnan’s confession, and yet every day was still a constant fight to remain indifferent to his apprentice’s charms. He had given up drinking, not trusting himself to behave while in his cups, and refused the company of all others. Aramis and Porthos had become furious, bursting through his door after three weeks and proclaiming that they had had enough, and demanding to know what the devil was wrong with him. He had fed them a lie, claiming it was the five-year anniversary of the death his wife and presumed soulmate, and sent them on their way. Solitude was all he could handle after each day of fighting his body’s instincts to throw himself at the boy, sheltering him from harm and claiming him as his own. 

Each day dragged by slower than molasses, but Athos continued on. He could not deny the emotions felt in response to D’Artagnan’s charming innocence and passion for life, but he hid them well. He kept a tight restraint on all of his reactions, and kept his promise to himself to be loyal to Charles in body and mind. He sought no whores to provide relief, and he refused even the pleasure of his own hand. None would have satisfied anyways; there was no replacement for the temptation that D'Artagnan presented. He would be in control, he would protect D’Artagnan above all things. And if he woke each morning with stained sheets and visions of D’Artagnan’s lovely smile, then that was nobody’s business.


	9. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little bit... hot. Hotter than one would hope.

They were fucked, and Athos knew it.

It was all the idiot Bonnaire’s fault. His lies and dishonourable of behaviour had led to Porthos getting hacked in the shoulder with an axe, and Athos had had to breathe deeply and pinch the bridge of his nose to remember that he was under the order of the king to bring this man to Paris safely, and that therefore he couldn’t shoot him where he stood.

There was no way Porthos would make it to Paris, or even to nightfall, without stopping someplace to repair the damage to his shoulder. Still, Athos protested when Aramis argued they needed to find somewhere nearby to stay. Surely Porthos could make it to the next town, Athos had stated, but Aramis had all but shrieked at him for his lack care over Porthos’ life. Athos relented, muttering apologies and saying that he knew a place nearby. Aramis, Athos felt, was being particularly touchy about Porthos’ injury, he thought he knew why.

The previous week, Aramis had fallen and hit his head against a post in the garrison while sparring, and had insisted that it be Athos that check him for any cuts that may have needs stitches. And so Athos had searched, not really understanding why no one else could do it, pushing thick waves out of his way until he reached Aramis’ left ear and froze. Aramis stiffened when he felt Athos go still, and glared at him with challenge in his eyes, because he knew there was no way that Athos could have missed the daintily written script curving around his ear: _Porthos_. Athos had averted his eyes and avoided touching the mark, saying nothing about it and feeling Aramis relax as he moved on without comment.

Athos rolled his eyes heavenward at the memory. If only Aramis knew.

 

By this point their little group had reached the gates of La Fère, and were all staring at him, expecting an explanation.  
“It’s mine.” Athos grunted, pushing past to open the gates and waving them through. Aramis’ eyes widened, and D’Artagnan’s nearly fell out of his head, so wide were they in disbelief. “I am le Comte de la Fère.” stated Athos, and he refused to elaborate any further than that. With Porthos’ state quickly deteriorating, nobody argued.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Athos had drifted through his time at La Fère in a trance, consuming more wine than he had in months and getting lost in memories. He hoped that Aramis, Porthos, and D’Artagnan had left without him when he had not returned from his errand, as he now lay in a field of Forget-Me-Nots, wallowing in the memories of the life that had crumbled around him. Perhaps, if he stayed here, he would fade into nothing and go to a world where he and Anne could be together in peace.

As night fell and the breeze became chilly, Athos returned to the house, planning to drink the rest of the contents of the wine cellar to help him forget. He was halfway through his fifth bottle when he realized that something was wrong. The curtains were on fire and smoke filled the room, but he was suddenly alert the second he felt her presence. She would always call to his soul, as she had been a balm to his heart during some of his loneliest hours. She glided into the room and smirked. “How appropriate,” she purred, “a good captain must go down with his ship, after all.” Athos was sure he must be dreaming as she stepped closer and knelt to meet his eyes. “I have come to erase it all.” she said, “All the pain in my past will be gone. Including you, it seems, dearest husband.” With that, she dropped her torch on the remains of Athos’ bottles, spilled nearby. Flames leapt up greedily to consume the liquor, catching Athos’s shirt and scalding his skin, but Athos was drunk and barely felt the pain. Vaguely, he registered that he was going to die. Maybe it was better this way. D’Artagnan was safe in Paris, far away from the harm he could cause. Maybe he would settle down with a pretty girl, and be safe and content. Athos smiled as his consciousness began to drift. Charles would be happy, and that was all that mattered. As his world turned black, he heard Anne’s last words to him: “Goodbye, Olivier.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Galloping into the yard, D’Artagnan skidded to a halt when realized the entire state was ablaze. Whipping his head around, he spied Athos’ horse tied to the tree nearby. "Athos must still be inside!" he realized frantically. 

“ATHOS!” he roared, praying he would hear an answering call. When none came, he sprinted into the burning building, squinting to try and see through the thick smoke. In the dining room he came across a lump of fabric, charred and seemingly lifeless… Athos! Standing behind him was a figure wrapped in the billowing smoke. He ignored the figure, trying to haul Athos into his arms to drag him to safety. As he yanked Athos through the entranceway, he swore he heard the figure bid goodbye to “Olivier”. He refocused on saving their lives, assuming he had misheard the figure through the roar of the flames. He finally managed to pull Athos out the front doors and onto the lawn, and sprawled him out so he had access to his chest. He pushed the ruins of Athos' shirt out of the way and pressed his ear over Athos’ heart, praying he would hear a heartbeat and ignoring the burning sensation that spread out through his limbs. Must’ve been the fire.

He exhaled with relief when he heard Athos’ heart beating steadily in his chest, and sat back with a laugh. Thank God.

His laugh was cut short abruptly when he noticed the clearly black and unfaded script curving under the spot where he had listened to Athos’ heart. But, Athos' soulmate was supposed to be dead. He leaned closer… no. It wasn't possible. Yet there it was, plain as day: _Charles_.

D’Artagnan was going to kill him.


	10. Hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos doesn't really know what happened, except that somehow, between La Fère and the garrison, his plan had gone completely off the rails.

Athos blinked, his eyes feeling gritty. What had happened? His mouth tasted like sand and the ceiling wasn’t the one is his apartment… The fire! Athos tried to sit up, only to fall back to the bed he was laid out on with a groan. His entire body ached like he had been run down by a mob. Across the small room that he now recognized as one of the bedrooms in the garrison, the door swung open to admit D’Artagnan carrying some water and bandages. His eyes widened when he saw that Athos was awake, but then narrowed with some unnamed emotion.

“D’Artagnan?” asked Athos, “what’s going on?”

“Your estate burnt down,” D’Artagnan replied brusquely, “don’t move, you’re injured.”

Athos looked down to take stock of his injuries. Most of his body was covered in dark bruises and some superficial scratches that appeared to have been carefully wrapped in bandages. Nothing appeared to be broken or in need of stitches.

“I need to change your dressings and clean the wounds, but you should heal fine.” D’Artagnan seemed to be avoiding looking at him. Was the bruising that ugly?

“I can do that.” Athos said quickly, “You can go.”

“You absolutely cannot,” D’Artagnan spat, eyes flashing back to meet his in challenge, “you can’t even sit up! You must let me help you.”

Athos scrambled to come up with a suitable retort. There was no way he could tolerate D’Artagnan tending to him like that. Right now, it appeared that his modesty was only preserved by a thin sheet, leaving his mark vulnerable if it were taken away. Plus, the idea of D’Artagnan carefully washing his entire body made his control threaten to shatter. Athos crossed his legs tightly, trying to ignore the throb of pain it caused to move his sore muscles.

“No,” Athos stated stubbornly, “I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

D’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch Athos, or kiss him. He could see the fear hidden in his eyes behind the stubborn jut of his chin and his mulish expression. Fine, if Athos was going to make his life difficult, he would do the same in return.

“Why not?” he asked innocently, “Surely you can accept assistance and comfort from a brother, someone you trust and who cares for you deeply. Don’t you trust me brother?”

“I… but…!” Athos sputtered.

While Athos struggled to speak, he took him off guard, reaching forward to draw the sheet back with a flourish. Athos’ eyes widened in panic as he quickly crossed his arms over his chest.

“There,” D’Artagnan grinned triumphantly, “You have nothing to hide now, n’est-ce pas? We are both men, are we not? What could you possibly have on your body to hide from me?”

His eyes glinted in challenge as Athos felt dread creep into his stomach, “You…”

D’Artagnan exploded.

_“Why didn’t you tell me I was your soulmate?! You **knew**_ , _and you kept it a secret! What is wrong with you; didn’t you want me? Or is it so horrible to love a man that you felt you had the right to rob me of my soulmate without my knowledge?”_

D’Artagnan stormed across the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

“D’Artagnan, wait…!” Athos tried to get up to follow.

“Fuck!” he grunted as his legs gave out and he fell, his knees hitting the ground painfully. He let his weight slide to the floor. D’Artagnan was gone, and now he was stuck on the floor with his soulmate rampaging through Paris.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was where Aramis found him a quarter of an hour later, sprawled on the floor and staring at the ceiling. Aramis’ lips twitched as he half-carried Athos back to the bed.

“Not a word.” Athos muttered darkly.

Aramis sighed. “What did you do?”

For a second Athos hesitated, but the weight of his secret had grown on his heart, and Aramis’ eyes promised the support of a friend. And so, he told him the whole tale; of his wife and her betrayal, how he had come to Paris and eventually discovered D’Artagnan was his soulmate, and how he felt involvement with him could only bring trouble. In the eyes of the law, he was destined to be a sinner. In the eyes of the church, he already was.

Instead of the shock that Athos had expected, Aramis merely considered for a moment, and then tilted his head to one side. “And what does D’Artagnan say?”

“Ahm… I suppose I don’t know.”

“Athos, surely you’ve spoken to him about it? Told him you are his soulmate?” Aramis took Athos’ averted gaze as a “no”. He closed his eyes and prayed for patience.

“Athos, it is not for you to decide whether D’Artagnan is allowed to know his soulmate, the one person meant to be his other half. You are not strangers, he is your friend. You can choose whether you are in a relationship with him, but he has a right to know you and express his own thoughts. By hiding yourself from him, you have stifled his voice and stolen his free will. To be a soulmate is to be a partner, and whether you choose to be in a relationship with him or not, you will need his help to make your plan succeed.”

“Listen, Athos,” Aramis continued, “you have exercised your right to choose no, and that is your choice. But in hiding from D’Artagnan, you have taken his choice away entirely and refused to hear him. If you love him enough to protect him, then you love him enough to provide him that chance. Besides, to have your soulmate choose a life separate from your own is… beyond words. He will need your support, no matter what you both may choose.” When Aramis had finished, a shadow had come across his usually bright visage. It was clear that he spoke from experience.

Seeing the pain in his brother’s eyes, Athos grumbled to himself but acquiesced.

“At least help me home to my lodgings first. I am not having this conversation where I know yours and Porthos’ ears will be pressed to the keyhole.”


	11. D'Artagnan's Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan is fed up. This time, Athos doesn't get to make all the decisions.

D’Artagnan avoided seeing Athos for ten whole days, which was made easy by the fact that Treville had ordered he not return to the garrison until he was fighting fit. Athos thought his head might explode from boredom and built-up tension, so he used the time he was stuck at home to exercise, pushing his muscles to heal so he could return to duty and steeling his mind for the awkward conversation he was going to have to face.

Aramis arrived when he had finished duty for the day, carrying two bottles of wine and intending to assess whether Athos would be able to return to the garrison the following week. He was less than amused to enter Athos’ spartan apartment to find him running drills in the centre of the small room.

In response to Aramis’ unimpressed expression, Athos grumpily asserted that he was just fine, thank you very much, and was not in need of Aramis’ mothering.

Aramis sighed. “Well, you appear to be healing well. You should be fine. Which is perfect because Porthos should be here any minute...” As if summoned, Porthos burst through the door, carrying an armful of what appeared to be a blur of very irritated Gascon. Seemingly unaffected by the limbs flailing past his face, Porthos dumped D’Artagnan on the floor with a cheerful smile. Aramis’ grin could be described only as devious.

“Have fun kids!” he trilled in a sing-song voice, whilst dragging Porthos out the door by his collar. Athos winced when he heard a plank of wood slam into place across the doorframe, preventing escape unless he wanted to jump out the window.

Deciding there was no point in threatening to shoot them, he sighed and turned his attention to the lump of angry Gascon spilled across his floor. The air was thick with tension, but Athos couldn’t help but notice that D’Artagnan’s expression of fury was rather adorable. He took a deep breath, trying to gather is thoughts to say something. D’Artagnan beat him to it, angry at not getting his way the last time he had attempted this conversation. The boy stood and got right into Athos’ face.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you like me?” he demanded. Athos cursed internally. There was no avoiding a question that direct.

“Of course I like you D’Artagnan. You are a very dear friend to me.” Athos stated carefully. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes.

“Don’t feed me that bullshit. What is it, am I not attractive enough? Are you that disappointed that I am not a woman?” D’Artagnan supposed this could be possible. Platonic soulmates were not wholly unheard of, though they were rare. His heart sank a little in his chest. Would Athos want a relationship like that?

“What? No! You’re fine, I mean you’re attractive, but, gah!” Athos trailed off. He sat on the bed and motioned for the boy to join him, maintaining a few inches of space between their bodies. “Listen, D’Artagnan, it’s not that you are not… pleasing to me. It is simply that it is not safe for us to have a relationship like that. And surely you would prefer to find someone younger and less weary of the world. You know I had a wife, though she was not my soulmate, and her betrayal cost my brother his life. You deserve a partnership that is unstained by that kind of history. Perhaps Madame Bonacieux? Her husband treats her poorly, and I am sure she would welcome the attentions of a good man such as yourself.” It ached to encourage D’Artagnan to strike up a relationship with someone else, but he deserved more happiness than Athos could provide.

D’Artagnan appeared to be unimpressed by his speech. “So, what you’re saying,” he clarified, “is that you think there is someone better for me out there. Someone better suited?” At Athos’ nod, he burst into laughter.

“Athos, you’re my soulmate! That means that you were literally made to be perfect for me in every way! What woman could possibly compete with that?” He leaned further into Athos’ space and placed his hands on the older man’s thighs. “I think you’re just scared of what will happen. Scared of taking a risk to be happy, just because it might one day be snatched away.” Athos looked away guiltily, trying to ignore the heat of D’Artagnan’s palms burning through his breeches.

“I am not some wilting flower, Athos. I will be a musketeer one day and I am willing to fight for my right to stand beside you, even if the nature of our relationship must be kept a secret. I am your other half; I will never betray you and I am meant to love you always. Do you not think that is worth fighting for?”

As D’Artagnan slid his hands further up his thighs, Athos struggled to focus. D’Artagnan inched closer until their lips were a hairsbreadth away, watching Athos’ eyes darken with desire until only a thin ring of blue lined the blackness of the want in his eyes.

“I am yours, heart and soul, Athos. It was meant to be that way. Just let go, and take the love I am offering freely.”

Athos was drowning in the deep brown eyes before him, and when D’Artagnan slowly leaned forward to cover his mouth with his own, he did not fight. D'Artagnan's lips were soft but insistent, trying to coax him to respond. Warmth encompassed his entire body and fire shot up his spine while he struggled to remember the reasons why this was a bad idea. Athos fought for composure, but when D’Artagnan’s tongue flicked out to trace the outline of his lower lip, challenging Athos to engage, he was lost.

With a moan, he sank his lips onto D’Artagnan’s. His hands dragged the boy’s body closer until he could feel his heart beat against his own. Every protest had fled Athos’ mind as he greedily devoured the taste of his soulmate. He sunk back against the bed, until he could feel D’Artagnan’s heat against every line of his body. He needed this; the feel of D’Artagnan’s weight cradled safety against his chest. His hands grasped frantically at every inch of D’Artagnan that he could reach; his doublet, his hair, his belts. He froze when he heard a soft moan escape the boy. He realized that he was achingly hard, his cock desperate for attention. His hips pressed forward without his permission, seeking friction, and he gasped when he felt D’Artagnan’s cock, equally hard, rubbing against his own through the layers of leather.

Athos’ control snapped. Tightening his muscles, he manhandled D’Artagnan down to the bed until he loomed over him, giving him access to start tearing their uniforms from their bodies. Doublet, leathers, and belts went flying across the room, until they were left only in their shirtsleeves.

Athos stopped, panting. D’Artagnan, confused by his sudden freeze, looked up warily. He was a perfect picture, cradled between Athos’ thighs with his pupils blown wide and his lips swollen from kisses.

“Tell me you want this, D’Artagnan. That I’m not just taking it from you because it’s what I want.” begged Athos.

D’Artagnan’s response was immediate and without hesitation.

“I want you. _Now_. Stop stalling.” He grasped a fistful of Athos’ hair and yanked him down so he could kiss him again.

Athos was dizzy with pleasure, and he shook his head, trying to clear it. If D’Artagnan was going to give him this, he would make it as good for him as possible. He disentangled himself from the Gascon’s arms and silenced his whine with a quelling look. He pulled both of their shirts off, gently easing the garment over the boy’s head. He then deftly untied D’Artagnan’s linens and slid them off, throwing them to join the rest of their clothes on the floor. Starting at his mate’s neck, he began to kiss and lick the skin under his ear, tasting the saltiness of dust and sweat on his skin. His nibbled carefully down the graceful column, coaxing whimpers from D’Artagnan’s throat. He paused where neck met well-muscled shoulder and bit down hard, ensuring it would leave a deep purple bruise. He pressed soft kisses to the spot to soothe the sting.

“You are mine now,” he murmured, “I will never let you go.”

He slid his mouth lower, dipping his head to flick his tongue over each nipple, and continued lower to leave a sloppy trail of kisses down D’Artagnan’s lean stomach. His gaze was drawn to his lover’s right hip, where his name was framed perfectly by the slope of the bone. His raised his hand to trail his fingers over it, and then reverently placed a kiss where the “r” met the juncture of D’Artagnan’s thighs. The boy’s hips flexed, chasing the burning pleasure that Athos’ lips on his mark elicited. Athos’ own mark tingled in answer. He surveyed the lithe body spread out before him. D'Artagnan was indescribably gorgeous, all smooth, tanned skin and sleek muscle. His cock was deliciously hard and leaking drops of precome onto his stomach.

Athos took a deep breath. If D'Artagnan wanted him, then he would give him all he had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

D’Artagnan gasped eagerly when Athos settled between his spread thighs, but instead of taking him into his mouth, he began pressing open-mouthed kisses to his legs, starting at the ankle. D’Artagnan groaned in frustration, but Athos continued relentlessly, sucking marks onto sensitive inner thighs.

By the time he had finished, D’Artagnan was trembling with want and his stomach was smeared with the evidence of his need. Raising his head, Athos met D’Artagnan’s gaze. He said nothing, but his eyes burned with sincerity before he suddenly swooped down to swallow D’Artagnan to the root. D’Artagnan took deep breaths, trying not to come immediately down his lover’s throat. He could feel Athos struggle to accommodate his length, throat working to stretch around the head of his cock. After a few moments, he seemed to adjust enough to be able to begin bobbing his head at a torturously slow pace.

D’Artagnan was overwhelmed. He had never experienced pleasure like this, so intense that it bordered on pain. Athos was everywhere; he could feel his heat from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. His tongue was laving the head of the his cock while his hands had a punishing grip on his hips. D’Artagnan felt the faintest hint of teeth scrape across his shaft and swore. There was no way he was going to last. Panicking slightly, he buried his hands in the older man’s hair to try to get him to pull off, but Athos was having none of it. He sank even lower onto D'Artagnan's cock. D’Artagnan could feel him swallowing around him, and it tipped him over the edge. Sparks shot through his limbs as he cried out, shoving deeper into Athos’ mouth and spending over his tongue. His vision went white.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time he came back to himself, Athos was kneeling over him with reddened lips and wild eyes. Realizing it was his chance to reciprocate, D’Artagnan eagerly scrambled to pull Athos’ linens from his hips.

“You don’t have to… ah..ahm, you know.” Athos stated haltingly, gesturing vaguely to his crotch. D’Artagnan’s eyes narrowed. It was just like Athos to serve others and then try to avoid service in return. He put on his best pout and ghosted his hand over Athos’ cock, saying,

“But Athos, I want to see you come. Spend for me, please?”

Athos’ eyes widened, his knees giving away until he knelt on all fours over his lover. D’Artagnan grinned wickedly and reached for him. His hand had barely wrapped around Athos’ cock before he exploded, striping D’Artagnan’s chest and belly with semen.

“ _D’Artagnan!_ ”

D’Artagnan shivered, enjoying the sound of his name on his lover’s lips. Athos collapsed, barely managing to roll to the side so he didn’t crush his mate. His normally solemn face was slack with pleasure, all of the lines smoothed out, troubles forgotten. He gathered D’Artagnan close to kiss him and then curled around him, promptly falling asleep. D’Artagnan’s small smile was faintly smug as he drifted off.

This time, he had **definitely** gotten his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry no update yesterday... extra long chapter to make up for it?
> 
> P.S. your comments are my addiction
> 
> -Mlle Lucie <3


	12. Lose the Battle, Win the War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes losing has its benefits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY SORRY SORRY. I'm the worst. Exams are the worst. Bad author! I'll try to be better about updating, promise promise. Hugs to those who have been patient<3 I hope this makes up for it.

When Aramis, Athos, Porthos, and D’Artagnan walked into the garrison the next morning, Athos immediately peeled off from the others and headed towards the stables without breakfast. D’Artagnan settled down at their regular table with a sigh. Athos hadn’t said a word all morning, dressing in silence and then waiting by the door, eyes pointed to the ceiling, for D’Artagnan to be ready to go and meet Porthos and Aramis. D’Artagnan was a little hurt, but unsurprised. He had known there was a high chance Athos would wake up and panic in the face of the reality of the danger they faced. Not that D’Artagnan wasn’t worried, but he had had years before meeting Athos to accept that hiding would be a part of his life. In his mind, the partnership and love that a soulmate represented was well worth the risk, and he had reconciled himself to his fate.

And as for Athos, he would bring him around. He had a plan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

D’Artagnan was just finishing his porridge when Aramis and Porthos dropped onto the bench across from him with their own bowls. He wondered where they’d got to; both looked a little uneasy and strained.

“Are you guys okay?” At D’Artagnan’s inquiry, Aramis’ winning smile immediately stole over his face, concealing the stress from before.

“Why of course, pup! Why shouldn’t we be?” Aramis trilled. Porthos only grunted and lowered his head to focus on his porridge. D’Artagnan’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he decided to let it drop for now. He needed Aramis’ help for his plan.

“Say Aramis, I was thinking that we might make training a little bit more interesting today.” he suggested loudly, making sure everyone in the surrounding area could hear.

Aramis’ eyes immediately sparked with mischief. He was always ready to bring a little chaos to their regimented lives. “What did you have in mind?”

“I propose a little challenge while sparring. When one of us wins a bout, the other must remove an item of clothing, until the loser is left unclothed before the entire garrison and must buy all of the winner’s drinks tonight.” Porthos gagged in shock as a devious grin split Aramis’ face.

“I do believe we have a deal, pup.”

D’Artagnan shook his hand, grinning secretively. He was going to win this war, even if it meant losing a battle to Aramis.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Athos emerged from the stables mid-morning to see trainees and musketeers alike all crowded around the sparring area. He had spent the morning tending the horses so he wouldn’t have to face D’Artagnan. He had awoken that morning with an unfamiliar feeling of contentment in his heart and a warm body wrapped up in his arms. His happiness had only lasted a moment, however, until the reality of their situation had hit him. The night before had been a mistake that put them both in danger, and it had taught him something: D’Artagnan was far too precious to put at risk. He would have to distance himself if he wanted the boy to be safe, and to do that he would have to pretend that the Gascon meant nothing to him, or else he would refuse to leave. He took one more moment to savour the man in his arms, for the memory would have to last him the rest of his days. Then he rose and dressed in a trance, pulling his mask of indifference over himself like an old, worn, and ill-fitting cloak. By the time the boy was out of bed, he was already dressed and waiting silently by the door.

Pushing through a group of comrades, he shook off the memories from this morning as he walked into a scene his mind couldn’t reconcile. Aramis and D’Artagnan were circling each other holding swords aloft, but D’Artagnan’s boots and hose were strewn across the ground nearby and Aramis’ braces were missing. Neither wore a doublet, and D’Artagnan was tossing Aramis’ hat aside with a look of triumph on his face.

Porthos sat off to the side with a surly look on his face. Athos dropped down next to him.

“What in the name of all that is holy is going on?”

“They’re being imbeciles, that’s what.” Porthos spat, clearly unimpressed. However, his eyes never left the scene before him as he went on, “At the end of each bout, the loser removes an item of clothing. Until one of them is bared for the entire garrison to see.”

Panic and anger flared to life in Athos’ stomach. The boy was his! No one had a right to gaze upon him in such a way, except for him. He was halfway to his feet with a snarl on his lips before he remembered his decision from the morning. D’Artagnan was not his. He had no right to claim him, especially in front of their comrades. The fight dropped out of his muscles and a weight settled in his stomach as he sat back down, resigned to watch.

As he watched, Athos became confused. Aramis was a good fighter, but by now D’Artagnan was almost as skilled as himself. There was no way he should have lost some of the bouts that he had. His movements were strange and impractically acrobatic. He kept bending low and leaping high, rolling through the dirt to avoid a strike he could have easily parried. The unusual style forced him to use excess strength and flexibility, showing off his athleticism for sure, but exhausting him unnecessarily.

All of these thoughts were in the background of Athos’ mind, however, as the rest of it was rather… preoccupied. He had watched as D’Artagnan flexed and stretched, muscles bunching and sweat dripping from his brow to drag slowly down his throat. Athos had wished he could lick it away. He had watched as his soulmate bowed low to the ground, passion and fire lighting up his face. He imagined it was for him that D’Artagnan sank to his knees. Athos’ mouth went dry at the thought, and a low groan escaped him. This was torture. Watching the man that was supposed to be his alone cross swords with another, while he stripped for other men to see. But there was nothing he could do.

And so the fight went on. Clothing items were tossed aside from both musketeers, until Aramis won a bout that would force the boy to remove his shirt, seemingly making it a draw, each with only their breeches remaining.

As he sank into a ready stance, Aramis called to the Gascon: “It seems we are now even, brother!”

A quicksilver grin flitted across D’Artagnan’s face. “Are we really, brother?” he called back, with mischief in his voice. Reaching down, he lifted the hem of his shirt over his head and tossed the garment to the side. There, around his neck and previously hidden by his collar, was Athos’ scarf.

Athos’ throat almost closed as he reached for his own neck in shock. In the haze of his dressing this morning, he hadn’t even noticed it was missing. And now it was carefully draped around the neck of his soulmate; framing hard muscles and soft skin, and begging to be torn off. He swallowed hard and prayed for the strength of the buttons on his breeches.

Meanwhile, Aramis was squawking indignantly at the appearance of the scarf.

“What is it brother? Can’t handle a little challenge?” D’Artagnan taunted.

Aramis’ mouth thinned in determination and delight.

“Oh, little Gascon, you have no idea what you are asking for.”

The bout began, Aramis lashing out quickly to test D’Artagnan’s defenses. D’Artagnan parried, and swung low to Aramis’ now bare feet. Aramis dodged, and retaliated from D’Artagnan’s left side. They traded blows back and forth, testing each other’s limits, until D’Artagnan seemingly tripped and ended up with Aramis’ sword at his throat. He conceded gracefully before rising to saunter over towards Athos. Stopping in front of him, he tugged the scarf free and sank to one knee with it proffered in his hands.

“A token for my… commander.” he murmured in low voice.

Athos’ eyes widened as electricity shot up his spine at the sight of a nearly naked D’Artagnan kneeling for his command. After a moment, D’Artagnan rose and draped the scarf loosely around Athos’ neck, making sure to breathe hotly against his ear as he bent over him. With a smirk, he then walked back over to the centre of the yard to face off against Aramis.

“Now we are even.”

Aramis laughed uproariously, before beginning the bout with a flourish. D’Artagnan smiled equally fiercely, and retaliated with spirit. This time, he would fight for real. Athos would know, would recognize his true fighting style, and see that he fought for him.

The bout went on for longer than any of the others as the two musketeers each fought to gain the upper hand. Blades slashed and twirled in a deadly dance of skill and fire. As they broke apart to circle once more, both warriors’ chests were heaving with effort, and dripping with sweat. They came together in a final clash of steel against steel, movements coming together into a blur. In a clever move, Aramis risked dropping his guard to feint to D’Artagnan’s right, and then twisted unexpectedly to end up behind the Gascon and swept his feet out from under him so he sprawled into the dirt.

Victorious, he pointed his sword at the younger man’s chest and drawled “Yield, monsieur.”

With a sigh, D’Artagnan dropped his sword and raised his hands. “Yield.” He responded. He accepted Aramis’ hand to pull himself to his feet.

Aramis grinned. “And your side of the bargain?”

D’Artagnan sighed again and pushed his hair away from his face.

“Stop stalling pup,” Aramis teased, “We’re waiting. It’s not like we haven’t all seen each other in smallclothes before anyway.”

D’Artagnan smiled ruefully as his hands went to the buttons of his breeches. “Yes, I suppose it wouldn’t be quite so terrible,” he admitted, “if I was wearing any.”

Athos stood abruptly. All eyes swung to the sudden movement. After a moment of panic he mustered his authority to call out:

“Alright, I think you’ve all neglected your duties for long enough now. Return to your stations, and D’Artagnan put your uniform back on immediately!” His voice may have cracked near the end, but no one seemed to notice as the soldiers scrambled to follow orders.

D’Artagnan had gathered his uniform into his arms, and strolled over to where Athos was standing and looking rather panicked.

“My apologies, commander. It was not my intention to interfere with musketeer duties.” He met Athos’ eyes and licked his lips before continuing,

“I will have to find a way to make it up to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strip fencing should definitely be thing, if it involves musketeers.


	13. Throwing Down the Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next step of the plan. D'Artagnan just has to make it... convincing.

Athos swallowed, hard. If this was God testing his will, then he was going to fail. This wasn’t fair. The soldier in front of him was muscles and sweat and mischief and sin, all poured into a man more tempting than the sweetest wines.

And he, the idiot, had just demanded that all that delicious skin be covered up. He groaned internally. Clearly the universe hated him.

Dressed in just his shirtsleeves, having left his doublet on a table, D’Artagnan straightened from tying his boots.

“Shall I assist you with stable duty then, Athos?” he asked, already heading towards the stable block, “To make it up to you, of course.”

Athos gulped. Spending the rest of the day alone with D’Artagnan, in an enclosed space no less, sounded like the sweetest torture. “No! No. No, it’s fine, I’m almost done, honestly.” He stammered quickly.

“Don’t be silly.” D’Artagnan insisted, “Just let me wash up.” He ducked his hands into a nearby bucket of clean water and quickly washed his face and the back of his neck of sweat and dust, allowing the stray drops to darken his shirt and rendering it partially transparent. “There. Now let’s get started, c’mon Athos.” He grinned.

Athos let out what sounded like a small, choked whine before following, his expression dazed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside the stables, D’Artagnan took a deep breath. So far his plan had gone off perfectly, but this next part depended on his ability to execute a skill he’d never tried. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He could do this. He pulled one of his riding gloves out his pocket as Athos stepped through the door.

“Really, D’Artagnan, your assistance is unnecessary, I-“ His voice cut off abruptly when he caught sight of D’Artagnan stalking slowly towards him, eyeing him like a hunter would his prey.

“Shh. You’re not going to talk right now.” D’Artagnan now had Athos cornered, crowded against the door of the stables.

“-But”

“No, no. That’s not your job right now” D’Artagnan ordered silkily. He held his glove up to where Athos’ jaw was hanging open in shock and slid the supple leather between Athos’ teeth.

"Bite." he ordered. Athos obeyed without thought, looking overwhelmed.

He continued,“Your job right now is to keep quiet,” D'Artagnan slid the latch on the door into place with an ominous click, “and to keep this door blocked so that none of our comrades can… interrupt.” He smirked.

Without warning, D’Artagnan slid to his knees.

“Now, hold still.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I WANTED TO WRITE MORE BUT IT HAD BEEN TOO LONG AND I ONLY HAD HALF AN HOUR. FORGIVE ME. Seriously, sexual tension is real, even I can barely take it anymore. Don't hate me<3


	14. A Tangle of Leather and Limbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan's a natural.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3...2...1
> 
> At the request of cicci783, because someone needed to get my butt in gear. Thanks for being that kick in the ass!

The swearing inside Athos’ head had progressed from French, burning through every language he knew alphabetically and then backwards, before settling on a jumbled wordless panic. This could not be happening. Not here. Not now. Not with Athos’ control hanging by a thread, and his brothers-in-arms less than ten feet away. He should do something, stop this. But then D’Artagnan sank to his knees, and a wave of want slammed into him. He surrendered with a groan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Okay, this can’t be too difficult right?_ D’Artagnan thought to himself. _Just undo his buttons._ Right. Buttons first. Easy.

His lifted his hands to the front of his soulmate’s breeches and undid the buttons with trembling fingers. _Now braies._ He tugged on the laces holding the linens closed, and pushed leather and cloth away to reveal warm flesh.

He exhaled heavily, greedily looking his fill. Athos was beautifully bare before him, and D’Artagnan was going to take his time with him. Hard thighs and lean hips that begged to be gripped were covered by pale skin and a light dusting of hair. The hint of a happy trail D’Artagnan had glimpsed before led down to a nest of soft-looking curls, framing a sight that made D’Artagnan’s mouth water. Athos’ cock was thick and heavy, curving up proudly and flushed with desire. Wetness beaded at the tip, glistening in the low light.

D’Artagnan leaned forward and licked the drop away, savouring the salty taste and the answering hiss from above him. Emboldened, he settled his hands on his soulmate’s hips and let his tongue slide out to trace the line where thigh met groin. Tipping his head back, he then nipped softly down the older man’s stomach, feeling the muscles bunch in response. Athos shook under his lips. Trailing downwards, he began to nip along Athos’ thighs, before sucking a deep purple bruise into the skin of his inner thigh. When he was satisfied with the mark, he took a deep breath, wet his lips and focused on Athos’ cock.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Athos was so tense he felt like he might combust. His hands were fisted as his sides, knuckles white with strain. His spine was rigidly straight, and his jaw was clenched so hard he heard the leather clenched between his teeth squeak in protest. The onslaught of pleasure he had just endured had stretched his control to its very limit, and D’Artagnan had barely even touched his cock. Athos squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for control, but when the sensations suddenly stopped he opened his eyes to see his soulmate licking his lips with his eyes fixed on his leaking member. He held his breath as the boy leaned forward and gently sucked the head of his cock into his mouth. The heat in Athos’ body ratcheted up as he fought to become accustomed to the soft, warm wetness now encasing the most sensitive part of his body. They both stilled, frozen in the moment, waiting for the other to react.

Athos control cracked, and he let out a small, strangled-sounding gasp and bit down harder on the glove to regain control. Unfortunately, D’Artagnan had already heard and a wicked gleam entered his eyes. He slowly slid lower and lower on Athos’ shaft until the head bumped his throat, making him gag and forcing his mouth to water. Spit dripped messily from the corners of his mouth, and Athos felt it slide wetly down his sac. He sucked in a breath sharply and slammed his fisted hands into the wood behind him trying to control the urge to thrust into the heat.

D’Artagnan ruined all his efforts. Having stilled again at the sudden noise, he slowly tipped his head backwards, exposing his neck in submission and pressing his tongue to the sensitive underside of Athos’ cock. His eyes fluttered open and locked with his soulmate’s. To Athos, it seemed they were begging for him to let go, to take D’Artagnan’s mouth with abandon until he emptied down his throat. Eyes wide, D’Artagnan’s jaw went slack and he let out a small sound that vibrated down Athos’ cock and up his spine:

“Mmmm.”

Athos broke. His hips shoved forward against his command and his hands came up to fist in the Gascon’s hair so he could drag his sinful mouth lower on his shaft. The boy’s hands gripped his hips, holding on for dear life, but pulling them forward, seemingly wanting more. Athos spat out the glove and growled:

“ ** _D’Artagnan._** ”

The boy nodded eagerly and hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard. Athos felt a tingling at the base of his spine, the pleasure becoming almost too much. He used his hold on his mate’s hair to pull him back, but the younger man refused to relinquish the head, instead tickling his sensitive frenulum with his tongue. The sensation hit him like a brick wall, and he couldn’t stop his release from ripping through him like a storm. He watched, almost detached from his body, as D’Artagnan opened his mouth just in time for milky white fluid to spill across his tongue and drip down his chin into the dirt.

Time slammed into fast-forward as Athos came back to his body. D’Artagnan had tucked him away and was wiping the spend from his face so he could lick it from his fingers.

“Salty.” he commented. “But delicious.” He flashed another wicked grin. “Well, Sir, it seems that everything here is in order, so I’ll go ask Treville if there’s any more work to be completed today.” He sucked his thumb clean. “I expect I’ll see you there in a couple of minutes!”

The door slammed and Athos could hear the boy whistling as he strutted across the yard. His own knees crumbled and he sank into the dust, landing on his arse in an ungraceful heap.

What the hell had just happened?

A knock sounded at the barn the door.

“Athos?” Aramis peeked his head in the door. “ I heard something slam and I came to see if everything was alright…. Oh.” He took in the tangle of leather and limbs that was Athos, along with the soiled gloves and the mess on the floor.

Athos’s face turned crimson.

Aramis threw his head back and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking maybe I should set up a way for anyone who's interested to send me ideas or prompts, or even just if someone wants to yell excitedly at me about this fandom so I can yell excitedly back. Is there interest? How should I do this? I could set up an email I suppose. I'm not really a Tumblr-inclined sort of gal. Let me know, and send any ideas my way even if it's just random rambling! Your comments light up my day!
> 
> \- Mlle Lucie


End file.
